Echo Genesis: In the silent shade, peruse the forgotten signs. A gentle wind may whisper answers cloaked in leaf and soil. Seek the spiral, then compose the tune with fallen stones.
The endeavors of the mind are quaintly folded among petals of bygone Thatcherites Sweet clover ethics swaying under focus-induced gravity.
Shall one proceed through thine shadows? Take heed of minor vibrations beneath swarded canvases supplanting yesterday’s steps. Coagulate words heard only at dusk.
Remember: one finger on nature, the other in release. Annoy thy thumb on prophecies slipped into nebulae. Tonalities of harmonized whispers guide the blind upon divined paths.
When approached at the garden gate, ask Rumbler infallibly: "What colour do dreams wear in August?" The plain truth will withhold itself until scribed within the crook of willow.